


Maiden's Hand

by Spencebox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Cunnilingus, Disapproving Glare of Ned Stark, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Game of Thrones AU, God I love this shit my dudes, Hickeys, Horny Sandor Clegane, Joffery is Garbage, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow likes Sansa more than necessary, Knights - Freeform, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Period-Typical Sexism, Possessive Sandor Clegane, Pregnancy Kink, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sansa is like 16, She's had her moonblood for a while don't @ me, Top Sandor Clegane, Tournament Courting, Vaginal Sex, Virgin Sansa Stark, Wooing, and, courting, excessive use of the word cunt, wink wink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28639362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox
Summary: At the end of every Summer, the Maiden's Day Festival is held for seven days and seven nights.Any man or knight may fight for the right to lay claim to any maiden in Winterfell. And as it would happen, the young Sansa, eldest daughter of Ned Stark, has had her eyes on Sandor Clegane for some time. The man dubbed 'The Hound' had caught her attention, now she just needed to keep it.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Petyr Baelish (one sided)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 191





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2021! 
> 
> To new people and old, I'm putting myself back into the writing pool because, unlike how I've felt since last May-ish, I'm actually enjoying writing again! And I'm re-watching game of thrones, some of it is new some old, and holy shit I'm legally obligated to write this! I love SanSan!
> 
> 2020 was horrible and I'm glad it's gone! Hope you all are starting this new year off well!

**_Sansa_ **

“…And remember, my sweet girls, that your place is in the kitchens, the bed chambers and by your husbands sides— not the training grounds. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Madame Leanne eyed the window that showcased the extensive walking space of Winterfell. Grunting and cursing up a storm was the young Arya Stark, unruly and snarling in the face of another stable boy, Lommy , wooden swords clashing with ferocity. Such anger was unbecoming in a young woman.

It was most unladylike, and Madame Leanne turned a blind eye to the most horrendous sight of the young Stark girl actually besting the boy. What a disgrace to the Stark name, no one would ever wed into a family of brutish women and untamed children; not surprising that a family who welcomed bastards allowed young girls to run with _swords._

One of the smaller runts of the house Reed piped up in back, “I heard my father speak of a war coming to Winterfell. When all of our brothers and husbands are dead, will we fight then?”

“There is no war coming to Winterfell, Meera,” said Madame Leanne, smiling with pierced eyes.

“We have the strongest fighters and most ferocious men that Westeros has ever seen, and no man is stronger than that of the ones who roam these halls. They keep us safe, they make sure we are fed, and in return we give them our minds, our bodies, and all that they desire. It is the will of our creation, my girls, and to forget that is to forget how to live.”

“What if I want to fight?” Piping up from the window was a sweaty Arya Stark, blood cresting the corner of her lip. The boy that had been bested still lay with his back on the grass meters away, but Arya only had eyes for Madame Leanne.

“You prattle on about baby making and sucking cock like any of it means shit.” Arya stuck her head in the window and snickered at the flustered Madame. “I’m planning on winning the Maiden’s Day Feast, and I’ll be fighting for my own hand.”

“Like anyone would fight for a thing like her!” Jeyne Poole belted from the corner of the room, snorting like a muck ugly piglet. “I can’t imagine anyone but the Hound fighting for your honor.”

The other girls began to pipe up with their own jeers; “I bet he’d fuck you bloody with that ugly fucking mug of his.”

“Ladies!” belted Madam Leanne, a scandalized look on her perturbed face. Her beady eyes were stuck on the figure that had seemingly snuck up upon the room of women. The imposing shoulders of Ned Stark could overthrow any unruly whelp, and one glare in the direction of his youngest daughter had Arya fleeing from the open window, much to the relief of Madame Leanne.

Every girl scrambled to stand and quickly bow to the King, to which Ned went rightfully pink cheeked. He had never been one who enjoyed having women bow for him, which was less than could be said for Robert Baratheon, a boorish man who took pride in having a whore in one hand, and a pint of mead in the other. 

“It was not my intention to disturb you, Lady Leanne.” His eyes found the back of the room. “At the moment, I require my eldest daughter's presence. Sansa, if you please.” 

Standing with the grace of a Queen amongst her most loyal subjects, Sansa Stark rose from the hard-edged wooden chair that had dug into her bottom for the past quarter hour, and floated to her father’s arms. His warm smell of pine and ale soothed the agitation that had flooded her veins after the spectacle by Arya. 

Madame Leanne nodded to the duo, “Lady Sansa, King Stark.” 

“As you were.” Ned rested a hand on the small of Sansa’s back. Together, they stalked down the near empty hall, only the clanging of the Kingsguard’s footwear sounding about. Sansa wrung her hands behind her back, pinching the pale skin in an attempt to her held tongue. 

“It surprises me to never hear you defend your sister from the other girls.” Ned sighed while staring out at the lush greenery of his Kingdom. “Would she not defend your honor, if she had to?” 

“If you actually think she would, Father, then you do not know us at all.” Sansa snapped. She shrugged away her Father’s warm touch and, much like the young girl she wished she still were, began to pout. “She knows I hate how they look at me whenever they see her off fighting like some knight.” 

“Lemon Cake,” he crooned. “As King of Winterfell and father to both of you, I had decided to allow your sister the chance to have proper training. No, she will not become a knight but she will learn to protect herself when I am away.” 

Ned gingerly took her elbow and led her out onto the fine turf of grass that seemed to span for miles. It was not winter as of yet, for the leaves of autumn had just now begun to fall and lay waste. Soon, the nights would grow long and the days burdened with a chill that would tear through the North. Winter is Coming, the dreaded words of Winterfell that all knew too well. 

“My eldest daughter,” he turned to stare into her blue wide eyes. “I would ask this only of you if there was no other choice. And unfortunately, I have been called away from Winterfell for the time being.” 

Meera’s words of war rang through Sansa’s mind, “Has something happened, Father?” 

“Nothing that concerns you, Lemon Cake.” Gingerly resting a hand on her shoulder, he deeply sighed. “However, I would ask that in the time being, you see to the lessons that transpire between your sister and The Hound.” 

Sansa nearly tripped on thin air; “What?” 

“I have asked Ser Clegane to be the one who oversees the training your sister is to receive.” Smiling, Ned started to lead Sansa back inside. “I saw no better knight in my Kingsguard than that of The Hound. Do you not agree, dear daughter?” 

Keenly aware of the tightness erupting in the pit of her gut, Sansa cleared her throat. “He agreed to it?” 

“Yes,” chuckled Ned. “I daresay he wanted to… at least once I told him that you would be the one accompanying Arya to every sparring match before my return.” 

“Oh.” Sansa breathed out, fighting the urge to curl the edges of her lips and bite until they were red with blood. To think that Ser Clegane—The Hound—would be in her presence for many days and nights, that he would be in her sights while no doubt swinging his sword that could cut down any man who stood in his way. He had the strength of ten men in one, a true knight.

“I do hope this is not too much of a burden on you, daughter.” Ned supplied a warm smile and took pride in the warmth that blossomed on his eldest daughters cheeks. “I’ve always admired the devotion you have to your studies, and disappointing Lady Leanne would be most unforgivable.” 

Thoughts of studies and mindless chatter with the other women of the Court, the endless hours of wretched gossiping about betrothals and unhappy marriages was more than one lady could handle, and besides, “I’m sure I’ll find the time for my studies, as well as keeping an eye on Arya.” 

They’d reached the entrance of the tall Castle corridor, and Ned cupped Sansa’s cheek, “What would I ever do without, Sansa?” 

“Been killed ten times over, and I would no doubt be Queen.” Snickering with the mirth of a child, she bid her Father farewell and took a stroll. 

Kingsuard nodded as she passed before following after the retreating King with stony faces. Not seeing a smirk in the crowd of guards, like the handsome yet dimwitted face of one Jamie Lannister on the yearly trips to Kings Landing was one of the few things that she would change if need be, it never hurt to have a bit of liveliness in the Court. 

“Sansa!” Turning, the petite shape of Jeyne, and the always seductively smirking Margaery came bounding down the cobbled path. They must have just been released from afternoon studies, and Sansa put on her best grin. 

“What did the King want that was so important?” Jeyne slipped her arm into Sansa’s, Margaery sliding in to do the same on the opposite arm. “Was it about your stinkin’ sister? You know, if I were King, I’d have her flogged for the way she acts. Always going around like her shit doesn’t stink.” 

Margaery rolled her eyes, “All of us acted like wretches before we were of age. She just needs time to grow up, that’s all.” 

“You only say that because Loras was spotted with Olyvar two nights past,” countered Jeyne. “You’ll defend little Arya Stark as long as Loras is never punished.” 

Sansa flinched as Margaery’s nail dug into the pale flesh of her forearm, “Someone such as yourself— with as low birth status as a mutt, could not possibly understand the importance of preserving our family name.” 

“I’m a mutt, am I?” Jeyne snarled. “At least I don’t spend my nights in brothel’s looking for a fresh cunt to fuck, like your brother, and probably you as well.” 

Red flamed Margaery’s cheeks, and the usual smirk dropped. “How dare you-” 

“Please,” Sansa piped up, finally putting herself between their sparring. “I hate it when you two are like this. Just stop it, now.” 

The rivalry between Jeyne Poole and Margaery went as far back as to when they were kids, and Sansa had always found herself to be in the middle. It had always bordered on childish; the words spat back and forth and even tugs of hair and ripped dresses had been a staple of the trio’s friendship. Truly, it was less than ideal; like being the messenger in a years long war with no end in sight. 

“Fine,” spat Jeyne. Her nostrils flared and her lips pursed. “I think I hear my Father calling me.” Lifting up her skirts in a flurry of soft fabric, she stomped away from the duo with steam shooting out of her ears. The duo silently watched until she was no longer in their sights. 

“Did you have to aggravate her like that?” Sansa picked up their stroll and deeply sighed. “We both know her temper is her weakest trait.” 

Margaery had the gall to look offended by such an accusation. “Aggravate her? Me?” She scoffed, “You heard her, the things she was saying about Loras. What am I supposed to do, not defend the House Tyrell from lies?” 

“But…” Sansa licked her lips, turning to look at her friend. Confrontation always was her weak spot, especially with people she cared about. “She’s not the first person to say those things about Loras. I’ve heard others say similar.” 

“That doesn’t mean—”

“And I’m not saying they hold any merit or truth,” Sansa quickly added, sensing the fire in her friends veins beginning to boil. “But perhaps you should see to convincing Loras that his time in the brothels be put on pause until the whispers stop.” Turning, she gently pulled her friend into a hug. Rubbing her back and pulling away, Sansa smiled down at her friend, noting the wateriness in her eyes. 

“Let’s not bring down the mood of the hour with my own sorrows,” pleaded Margaery. “What exactly did your Father want, earlier?” 

Allowing the conversation to turn away from the Tyrell family drama, Sansa explained, “He said he’s leaving Winterfell, and no, he did not disclose where he was going or whom he was meeting with.” 

“Is that all?” 

Allowing a crooked smile to blossom her cheeks, Sansa turned them down another bend in the hall. “He also happened to mention that my sister would be receiving lessons to become a stronger swordsman.” 

“Swordswoman,” corrected Margaery. 

“Yes, swordswoman, and he has enlisted the help of Ser Clegane to see that she learns the proper way to use a sword.” 

“Clegane?” Margaery repeated, that devious smirk slithering back to her face. “Do you mean The Hound, my sweet Sansa? Your father, the greatest King that Winterfell has ever known, has convinced The Hound to teach his youngest daughter the ways in which to use a sword?” She snorted, “How rich is that.” 

Finally, the two of them exited the Castle walls and began to stalk along the dirt-covered roads. Peasants and Beggars hobbled along the outside Castle walls. Much less vibrant color littered to streets, and Sansa regretted not bringing a shawl to warm her thinly covered shoulders. Pity went out to the poor folk, knowing that winter would take more than a few in its wake.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sansa tugged her friend's arm in the direction of the trail that led out to the bountiful expanse of their kingdom. “Ser Clegane is one of the greatest knights in Westeros.” 

“He’s not a knight, Sansa,” said Margaery, looking at Sansa as if she’d grown two heads. “He’s refused to be titled a Ser since the day he came from King’s Landing. I think your Father just knows that if Cersei Lannister ever sends the Mountain to fight her battles, he’ll need the Hound at his side.” 

Tales of Gregor Clegane were not new to Winterfell or Westeros for that matter; the cruel stories and tales about the countless women The Mountain had married, raped and killed had always frightened Sansa to her very core. One whisper even said that he crushed a man’s head for snoring too loud. 

“He’s not a weapon, Margaery.” 

Margaery chuckled as if she’d heard a funny joke, pulling her arm free and strutting on ahead. Her honey blonde hair ruffled in the wind and she twirled in her step, turning to face Sansa with firm hands on her thin hips. “Hmm,” she hummed, eyes twinkling with mirth. 

“Do you fancy The Hound, Sansa?” asked Margaery, innocence surrounding her question. Sansa’s cheeks nearly matched the deep auburn of her hair, eyes darting anywhere but the sultry gaze of her friend. It may have seemed like a simple question—to which most would say a hefty ‘ _no_ ’ and carry on about the likes of the weather, but she nervously picked at the hem of her dress. “You mustn’t,” insisted Margaery.

“I didn’t say I did,” said Sansa. Looking around, and taking advantage of the open space with not a soul in sight, she whispered, “I think he’s a bit handsome, don’t you?”

“Handsome?” Margaery’s jaw fell, nose scrunching up with distaste. “That is not a word I would use to describe a man who allows himself to be called The Hound. He’s brutish and crude, and I see the way he looks at the ladies of the Court when he thinks we can’t see.” She shuddered, “It’s like he wants to devour us whole.”

It shivered Sansa’s bones to hear that; he did look at people like they were pieces of meat, but instead of frightening her, it excited her. To be ravaged with no restraint would have frightened a girl like Jeyne, even Margaery, who prided herself on knowledge of all things regarding bodily desires, would turn away from the scarred flesh of Sandor Clegane, unaware of how to handle a man of his stature and weight.

“Oh, Sansa,” cooed Margaery. It reminded Sansa of her times with the white doves of autumn, listening to their soft _hoots_ and _coos._ “You want him to eat you and your precious maidenhead up.” She’d spat maidenhead much like a curse, no doubt wishing hers still resided for some man to long for.

“Out of all the men who would bribe your Father for one night in your bed, you want the one that would tear you in two.”

“He’s cruel when he must be,” supplied Sansa, wanting to reason out her thoughts. “And no one is cruel all of the time.”

Margaery scoffed, “It’s clear you’ve never met a Lannister. They break their fast with a goblet of wine and disgust every time the sun rises. Especially Cersei.”

“And yet, he’s not a Lannister.”

“No, he’s a Clegane, and his brother, Gregor, is a known monster throughout Westeros.” She walked to her auburn friend and cupped her warm cheek. “Gregor Clegane is the reason that anyone who so much as speaks to a Lannister will die a slow death on the shores of Dorne. Even a streak of blonde hair is a death sentence.”

“Dorne?” Sansa asked with her brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Yes, Dorne,” repeated Margaery. Her eyes darted over Sansa’s shoulder too fast for her to catch. “The Mountain raped and killed Elia Martell, and then murdered her children as well.”

Ice ran through Sansa’s veins, not even wanting to imagine the horror of being raped and murdered by a man who was deemed The Mountain. “Why did he do it?” Sansa asked.

“Why do the Lannister’s do any of the things they do?” Margaery chuckled like she’d heard a particularly funny joke. “Because they have power, and power is dangerous in the hands of people like Cersei and Tywin.”

“You speak such ill faith of the Lannister’s, and yet Father tells of your plans to marry Joffrey.” Sansa replied. “Why marry into a family you despise?

“I never said I despised them,” Margaery replied. “I envy them.”

The ground started to shake under their shoes and Sansa’s brows furrowed as she turned, nearly falling over at the galloping horse coming their way. The bouncing figure carried a sword at his hip, and the distinct silver armor was not of the Kingsguard. Brown shoulder length locks blew back in the wind, showcasing textured, jagged burns that would frighten any child within a hundred miles. Sansa felt Margaery nudge her as The Hound came to an abrupt halt a few paces away, quickly dismounting his horse with precise ease.

“Hound!” Margaery yelled while lifting her skirts and bounding over to the stone faced man. “What brings you here today?” Stranger, the Hounds faithful steed, neighed at the Tyrell girl, shaking its mane back and forth.

“Little girls shouldn’t wander,” The Hound grumbled, eyeing the smirking Tyrell women. Too much like Olenna, that one.

“We are anything but little girls, Hound.” Turning to her silent friend, Margaery giggled. “Sansa and I were just discussing womanly things, before you so rudely interrupted us.”

“Ser Clegane,” Sansa began. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Not no _Ser_ , girl,” spat The Hound with a frown at the title, keeping his eye on the Tyrell girl fluttering around. It was the smirk that permanently resided on her face that let his disdain for her flourish; never trust anyone who smirked that much. 

“You didn’t answer me, Hound.” Margaery, unlike Sansa, had no like for the beast, hardly to be considered a man. “What brings you out of Winterfell?” 

“Keeping an eye on the both of you, I suppose,” The Hound grumbled. He kept his eyes on Margaery as she stepped closer. “I’d lose my head if either of you fell into the wrong hands.” 

Margaery snorted, close enough to look up the Hounds nose. Close enough to see every detail of his burned face. “We were doing just fine before you ruined our fun, Hound.” Sighing to herself, she looked to the slowly setting sun. “I suppose it is getting late.” 

“I think I’ll walk back, take a nice stroll and find Loras. Sansa gives quiet good advice when you need it,” Margaery mused aloud, “I suppose you can take her with you. She wouldn’t mind at all, right, Sansa dear?”

Both Margaery and The Hound looked to the girl with cheeks as red as her hair. The intensity of Sandor’s stare never failed to illicit enough blood to make ten sausages flood her cheeks, her eyes trying to look anywhere but into his. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind, Ser Clegane.” 

“Not no damned _Ser,_ girl,” repeated Sandor, burnt side of his lip twitching in a gruesome smile. At least, it was closer to a smile than a frown. 

“Perfect!” Margaery clapped her hands, but Sansa saw the mischief in her friend's eyes, “And Hound, will you be participating with the other men of the court in the Maiden’s Day Festival? I hear some of the ladies are eager for a showcase of your… attributes.” 

To Sansa’s dismay, the Hound scoffed. “Only fools ride around for pretty ladies. Never needed a horse to get access to a warm cunt.” Sansa gasped at his foul language, and even Margaery looked taken aback. It seemed Clegane hadn’t learned the proper way to speak to a lady. 

“Do you speak to all your lovers as crude as now, Hound?” Margaery quipped. 

He grinned, “Reckon it’s worse when we’re fucking.” Turning to Sansa, he motioned her forward, to which she sprinted to his exceptionally gigantic horse. She gasped as his hands came to plop on her hips, and he lifted her with ease on the horse. Margaery stared up with a smirk. 

“Farewell, Sansa.” Margaery’s smirk fell when turning to Clegane, “Hound.”

She turned and left the two of them, stalking away with her head held high in such a Highborn Tyrell fashion it made Sandor snort from his place on the ground. Effortlessly lifting himself onto the horse, taking place behind Sansa, Sandor asked, “Are you ready to return, Little Bird?” 

The nickname threw her off guard, “Little bird?” 

“Ay,” Sandor agreed as they began a slow trot, aware of his bulk bounding against her back.

“You have a fond way of repeating your friend’s pretty words, like a little bird.” His arm came around her middle and pulled her flush to his front. Her breath hitched with each bounce, and she did her best to ignore his chuckles as they made way back to Winterfell. 


	2. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor learns and lusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and kudos'd! This chapter sort of was longer than expected so my bAD. Oh! Also there is totally non cannon things, like house alliances, origins of specific places (like Baelish's brothel), and positions of some people. We're here to have fun people! Just go with the flow!
> 
> Spent like an hour checking for grammar but guys this was 10 pages I did my best, truly. Also! I'm on my journey of reading ASoIaF, currently on a Clash of Kings. Certain traits like italicized thoughts and a love for turnips were what I've thought to use in my own way!

**_Sandor_ **

Nothing was easier than killing, Sandor Clegane told himself as his sword knocked down Meryn Trant, the obnoxious prick that had thought it within his best self interest to boast about the Kingsguard latest folly in Baelish’s brothel. 

“The tits on that one,” Trant’s hands had covered the gold medal of his chestplate, obnoxiously shaking the tepid air trapped in the space between.

“Almost didn’t come up for air when I had her on her back, tits bouncin’ in my face like that. Be happy to die in a warm cunt between a pair of tits like hers.” Trant had a habit of pissng off anyone who had the pleasure of meeting him. Yellow teeth and breath that smelt of piss soaked lard and ale would have any man already reaching for their sword near Trant.

“Clegane!” Blackwood belted, his golden locks a shining beacon in the open training field. “The King’s requested your presence.” Various knights and lords were practicing on one another. Sounds of swords hitting metal breastplates and yelps of pain had the burned part of Sandor’s lips twitching. Almost no one was stupid enough to try to fight him. 

_Dumb cunts,_ he thought, watching a young baker, Hot Pie, get thrown on his ass, again. Younger boys were always tempted by the shiny swords and metal armor, thinking they stood a chance at having a future in the Kingsguard. Sandor scoffed. 

“Don’t keep the King waiting, Dog,” spat Wendel Manderly. “You know what happens to those that keep the King waiting.” It was happenstance that Manderly even remained in Winterfell still, seeing as his wife had just given birth in White Harbor. A trade city at heart, but a true ally to Winterfell as well. Wendel was the second son of Wyman, and as was typical of second sons, utterly disappointing. Reflecting on his bald head was a blinding light that nearly knocked Sandor off his feet. 

Re-sheathing his sword, Sandor nodded to the boy he’d been casually besting. Their name was something strange. Lommy, he remembered. 

“How’d I do, Dog?” Lommy yelled at Sandor’s retreating back. 

“If this were a real fight, you’d be dead.” Sandor grunted over his shoulder. 

Trekking through Winterfell, Sandor glanced at the people mulling about in the streets, children screeching at one another, sellers selling their goods and buyers buying. Suckling pigs lay one after the other while women dressed in their finest robes poked and prodded the hanging carcasses. Bountiful barrels of turnips, potatoes, beets and pumpkin, sweet and soft fish fresh from the daily catch, live cattle for the picking. It bored Sandor to see the barters bartering, and he scoffed once more. 

Truth be told, King Ned was behind the iron desk that had been within the Stark family for generations. His large fearsome hands resting near a stack of parchment, fingers intertwined. He had no fear for a man like Ned, but the little girl that sat at the one of two chairs before the desk, her legs swinging back and forth in a carefree childish way, did give pause to Sandor’s stride. She looked like a boy and a girl. Her chest was flatter than a board and those thin hips wouldn’t pass a babe anytime soon.

“My King,” started Sandor. He waited patiently, watching the King raise one eyebrow at the child before standing. 

“Clegane!” Ned smiled. “I was beginning to think Lucas Blackwood was the wrong man to deliver a message, but alas, you’ve arrived just in time.” His hand motioned to the child, who now sported a fearsome pout. “This is my youngest, Arya.” 

_Ah,_ Sandor realized, _the youngest Stark bitch._

“Arya,” The King’s tone went down a notch. “This is Ser Clegane.” 

“You mean the Dog.” Arya hummed. 

“Arya!” Ned snapped. His brows drew into harsh lines as his youngest stared ahead defiantly. Sandor held back a chuckle; the little brat wanted to be a snapping wolf, but was just a pup. “One more word from you and I’ll send you back to schooling with your sister.” 

Sandor knew very little about Arya Stark, aside from the few instances he’d seen her overturn boys younger and older. She had a fighting spirit, which Sandor admired, but claws too sharp for his taste. But the sister- _her_ _pretty, pretty, sister,_ Sandor thought, openly grinning as the King motioned to the open seat. 

“Now, Clegane,” Ned began, “I’ll admit, I called you here for selfish reasons pertaining to my youngest daughter.” Arya grunted. “She’s taken a liking to swordsmanship, and has turned her back on her studies. Normally, I would pay this no mind but people are beginning to talk, and I will not have my family’s name slandered in my own Kingdom. You must understand, Clegane, I would not ask you this if I did not respect you and your sword as my finest Knight in Winterfell.” 

Sandor sat up taller, side eyeing the still pouting Arya. 

“As of this moment, I will be removing you from my Kingsguard, and you shall devote your time to training Arya until she is ready to fight on her own without fear of her losing her head.” Ned rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Sandor’s eyes. “I will return by the end of the Maiden’s Day Festival, and would hope she would be ready to fight.” 

“A fortnight?” Sandor lurched from his chair, staring down at his King with disdain. “You would remove me from your Kingsguard to train this little princess?” 

Arya leaped forward as well, finally turning to speak directly at Sandor. “I’m not a princess, Dog, and I could slice your head off in your sleep!” 

“Ha! You don’t even have a sword, girl.” 

“Yes, I do!” Having gone red in the face, Arya began to stomp her feet. “I do have a sword and I’ll kill you, Dog. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!” 

“Enough!” 

Sandor held back his tongue, wanting to throttle the Stark bitch. An insufferable brat, she was, thinking the Seven Kingdoms bent to her will, or even the will of King Ned. She wouldn’t last five minutes against his brother. No, she’d never learn to use a sword nor fight anyone over her own name day. He guessed she’d barely had her moon bloods, the scrap of a girl. 

“Arya,” Ned coldly spoke. “On the marrow, you will begin your training with Clegane, and you will address him as such. Are we understood?” 

“But I hate him!” Arya stomped her foot down again. “He’s stupid and ugly and I hate him!” Her hands were clenched at her side and her face turned an awful shade of red, brown tawny locks swinging back and forth. Sandor could see there was more she wanted to say, no doubt that she wanted to maim him in his sleep, but one look from the King welcomed a reluctant leave. 

“Go find your brothers, Arya. I would speak to Clegane, alone.” Not needing to be told twice, she bolted from the room, muttering curses under her breath. The door slammed behind the youngest Stark, and Ned turned his attention to Sandor. 

“I would hope you do not seek to aggravate her on purpose, Clegane. Her temper is much like her mothers, and it’s one I would never want to be on the receiving end of. She may be my daughter, and I love her, truly,” Ned smirked, “But she could do with holding her tongue every so often.” 

Sandor did not chuckle with Ned. 

“Alright, there is one last piece of business, then.” He aggressively cleared his throat. “Not that I do not trust you, or Arya for that matter, but I will be enlisting my eldest, Sansa, to watch over you and Arya during your sparring matches. I hope this will not be a problem for you?” 

_Sansa Stark,_ Sandor internally growled, _Sansa fucking Stark._

When gazing at a woman like Sansa, beauty was not in the eye of the beholder, but wrapped in her pale slim fingers with trimmed clean nails which she never bit. Beauty was not the full, round teats of the brothel whores, nor was it their neatly trimmed cunts that smelt of sweat and another man's seed. There was no comparison when mounting a wet cunt with no name. Sansa belonged in the Eyrie, far away from the rough hands of a man like Sandor. His hands had killed more men than could count, crushed throats and stolen goods; his hands were too impure for the likes of her.

She belonged with a Prince, speared on a cock that came with a crown and jewels. And she deserved pretty jewels to don on her pale neck, ones that would hang down to her breasts and bounce in a way that had Sandor adjusting his breeches. He’d pictured all the different shades her teats would be, perhaps a soft red to match her crimson locks, or a light dusty rose with a pink nipple that he’d bit on, relishing in her moans. 

His hands clenched at his sides, trying not to picture her naked body standing before him. Only fools thought they could rut into a woman as beautiful as she, but he still dreamt of her and her soft, wet cunt. Kissing her mound covered in fiery curls would be his undoing, and tasting her juices would have him meeting the Stranger himself, walking on from this life to the next. 

Sansa Stark would be the death of him, Sandor knew, and yet he uttered, “Not a problem, My King,” feeling his lips twitch at the days to come. Trying to not kill the youngest Stark would be hard, but knowing Sansa would be watching… that would be torture.

* * *

He spots the two figures in the distance atop Stranger, the stallion that rode fiercer than any other with a stride longer than any two men together. Crimson locks flowing against the wind above a cream silk dress that no doubt hugged her bosom, standing tall next to a rusty blonde gold who could’ve passed for a Lannister. 

He rides forward and ignores the gawking faces of peasants. They murmur little whispers, teeth chattering lies that Sandor ignores, riding on. 

It’s the Tyrell girl with the crooked lips. _Margaery,_ he remembers. Tyrell blood was old and wealthy, but they all left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Hound!” The Tyrell girl spits as he comes to a halt before them, sliding off Stranger’s back. “What brings you here today?” Her eyes are pinched and beady. It reminds of a hawk; poised and ready to strike when needed. 

He’s quick to snap back, “Little girls shouldn’t wander.” 

“We are anything but little girls, Hound.” He watches as the Tyrell girl lifts her golden skirt from the dry grace. She begins to walk closer. “Sansa and I were just discussing womanly things, before you so rudely interrupted us.” 

After what seems like an eternity, he takes a peek at the burnt locks just a few paces away. She’s stunning, he knows, and he pats down the urge to go hard when she bites her lip. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Ser Clegane.” 

The ‘Ser’ title chills his bones, “Not no damned _Ser,_ girl.” He kept his eyes on the young Tyrell girl. 

“You didn’t answer me, Hound,” Tyrell raises a speculative brow at him, “What brings you out of Winterfell?” 

“Keeping an eye on you two, I suppose,” he grumbled. “I’d lose my head if either of you two fell into the wrong hands.” Any unruly hands reaching for the eldest Stark girl would like to tell the tale. _Except my own,_ he thought. 

Tyrell sighed, “We were doing just fine before you ruined our fun. I… suppose it is getting late. I think I’ll walk back, take a nice stroll and find my brother. Sansa gives quiet good advice when you need it,” Tyrell turned to Stark. “I suppose you can take Sansa with you. She wouldn’t mind at all, right, Sansa dear?” 

Sandor openly looked at her, taking in the chilled flush on her cheeks, blue round sapphire jeweled eyes twinkling in the dying Sun’s rays, and lips rosy red. She was the picture of innocence to Sandor, innocence he wanted to throw to the grass and ravish. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind, Ser Clegane.” She was like a little precious bird, repeating the soft words her master whispered in her ear. It gave him hope that she’d bounce on his cock if he whispered prettily enough. 

Again, he bristled at the title, “Not no damned _Ser,_ girl.” His burnt lip twitches when her eyes widen at his tone. He wondered what else was affected by his gruff tone. 

The Tyrell wench interrupted his train of thought, screeching “Perfect!”, even childishly clapping her hands.

He’d expected her to shut it and make way with the silent Sansa back home, but opened that smirking mouth again. “And Hound, will you be participating with the other men of the court in the Maiden’s Day Festival? I hear some of the ladies are eager for a showcase of your… attributes.” 

Scoffing before ladies was considered crude, but Sandor was no knight, so he scoffed. The Maiden’s Day Festival was for nancies and cowards. Only men whose brain was run by his cock would willingly prance before a crowd and fight for the right to fuck the right hole. 

“Only fools ride around for pretty ladies. Never needed a horse to get access to a warm cunt.” He relished in the hearty gasp from the Stark girl, wondering if she’d gasp like that when he plunged through her maidenhead. The Tyrell girl looked disgusted at his words. 

“Do you speak to all your lovers as crude as now, Hound?” 

Sandor grinned, “Reckon it’s worse when we’re fucking.” And it was; most whores enjoyed his foul mouth, made their cunts wetter and easier to slide in and out. Having grown tired of the Tyrell girls mindless chatter, his attention turned to Sansa, and with a quick motion forward she was at his side. Without a thought, his hands were resting on his soft hips, resisting the desire to squeeze and reach under to grope her warm cunt. Maybe it would even be a bit wet. 

Ignoring the Tyrell girls farewell, he made back for Winterfell with Sansa pressed to his chest. Her hair smelled of lilacs, lilies, and lemons.

* * *

On the brink of nightfall, King Ned had called for a feast. Bodies in every part of the castle had stormed the hall. Chambermaids were out of their usual plain garbs, instead dawning their festive clothing, though the cooks remained with aprons plenty, checking the tables and scolding little children whose hands burnt from carrying scorching bowls of creamy porridge and stews. Knights still wore their swords at hip, but mead coated their lips as laughs and snickers left their guts. 

The tables were covered with creamy turnips, soft stewed beets with a buttery sauce, two types of fish with a salty bite, legs of lamb and goat rode high on each table dripping with grease, each table even had mountains of grapes and red berries, said to be the favorite of any highborn King. A Feast above any other, and Sandor refused to partake. 

It could’ve been due to the boorish laughs from Lucas Blackwood, his broken front tooth on display every time he tore off a slab of lamb. Meryn Trant was no help, his beady eyes had followed a small-hipped handmaiden after King Ned had welcomed all to feast. Barely half the hour had passed before Trant had her bent and stuffed full of cock, her moans and whimpers hidden under the others cheers of drunken joy. 

Barely a spoonful of wet porridge had gone down his gullet before he’d left, choosing to stand guard outside the extravagant hall doors, listening in and waiting. It was a full moon that night, and Sandor squinted up to stare at the sky. Red hues popped up with smoke down the way, and his burns started to ache. Only in the night did fire come. 

There were no other guards to stand with him, and the temptation to simply fuck off to a brothel and find the whore with the reddest hair and creamiest skin grew. One whore named Palina had caught his eye as of late, she didn’t mind the scars, and she hadn’t ever backed away in fear that his cock would split her in two. Too modest to let him eat her cunt, though. 

“Friends, Allies and Common Folk,” bellowed King Ned Stark from his place at the High Table. Catelyn Stark sat on his right with a stoney face, Robb Stark next to her with Sansa to his right. Brandon was too young to join them, and Arya preferred whinging at Gendry, the blacksmith's only son- a bastard in title. Jon Snow, the Stark Bastard, loomed in the corner with an untouched goblet of mead. He preferred to have his wits at all times, unlike the man whom he called brother, who’d just downed his third glass under the watchful eye of Catelyn. 

From his place outside the door, Sandor heard the King’s words loud and true, “On the Morrow, I ride from Winterfell to our allies in the West. Dreadfort has supported Winterfell with men and loyalty for centuries. Lord Roose Bolton has graciously allowed for myself and the Kingsguard to stay for a fortnight in their Castle Walls. Negotiations will be under way, and under the eye of the Seven Gods, we will prosper once more!” 

From then on, the night ran smoothly. Sandor did not return to watch the men grow more rowdy and courageous, touch more aggressive and unwanted as women fell under the haze of full bellies stuffed with meat, turnips and rum. Salty fish coated their lips as men drew them forward, cocks hard in need of a good fuck. 

Sandor barely turned his head as the doors opened to his left, closing seconds later. Flashes of black curls flickered in the corner of his eyes, and he frowned. There were less than a handful of times that Sandor had spoken to the Stark bastard. The boy always seemed to be thinking quiet hard, his eyebrows always furrowed. He'd be a finer Maester than knight. 

“Did you not enjoy the feast?” Jon broke the silence. Sandor looked to the boy with raised brows. “My Father takes care of his people, and I would think a man of your status would take advantage of the crowd.” 

“Is that your royal way of saying I like to rape young girls?” Sandor clicked his tongue, shaking his head. It seemed the bastard was more stupid than initially thought. “Go fuck yourself, _Snow.”_

“I…” He felt Jon step closer but didn’t reach for the sword at his hip. The kid wasn’t dumb enough to try to fight. “I don’t want to offend you, Clegane, I would not insult you in such a way. I merely wish to speak with you about something I’ve had on my mind.” 

“Spit it out then, so I can go back to enjoying the silence.” 

Jon nodded. 

“I overhead my sister telling Robb that you’ll be the one training Arya, and I find myself… concerned for her wellbeing. I do not doubt your skills with your sword, but surely, you must understand, I fear you will hurt her beyond repair.” Jon’s eyes looked everywhere but into Sandor’s, and his palms began to grow sweaty. “You must be careful with her-” 

“I don’t have to do a damn thing you say, Snow, and the little shit can handle herself better than half the Kingsguard,” Sandor stepped closer to the bastard and growled. “You don’t get to come out here and tell me how to do what I do best. If you think you can, you must really know nothing, bastard.” 

Silence wafted between the two of them. 

“I see the way you look at my sister.” 

“The little shit?” Sandor played dumb. “Ay, I look at ‘er like she’d do better skinned and eaten.” 

“Sansa,” Jon corrected him. “I see the way you stare at Sansa when you think no one watches.” Jon grew bold. “You’re not the man for her, you never will be.” 

“And who will be, the right man for her that is?” He sneered down at the black haired little shit. 

“I’m not the man to make that choice.” 

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.” Looking forward once more, Sandor stoically said “If there’s nothing of importance, your grace, get the fuck out of my sight before I spear your guts with my sword.” 

Finally, Jon Snow left with a glare at Sandor, muttering under his breath like the littlest Stark. _Dumb cunt,_ Sandor thought. Except, the bastard had made a point in his flurry of annoying words. He was the wrong man for a woman like Sansa. 

“Ser Clegane.” 

_Speak of the Stranger and he shall appear,_ Sandor mused as one auburn haired beauty peeked out from the crack in the door. Not waiting for his approval, she slid out from the hall and leaned against the shut doors. Her bosom heaved as she deeply breathed, and he tried not to stare at the creamy swell just starting to spill over the tight dress. 

“Call me _Ser_ again, girl, and I won’t be as nice.” Unlike in Jon’s presence, he turned to fully address the petite frame of Sansa Stark, noting she’d changed her dress and let down the eye catching locks. Smatterings of pink and rose covered her cheeks, bringing out the blue in her eyes. A tully girl stood before him. 

“I’ve yet to understand why you choose to reject the title of Ser.” Sansa pondered, “I think it would suit you well.” 

“Many things would suit me well, but being the King’s glorified stable boy is not one.” Breathing in deeply, he smelt her lemony scent. Fruits were too sweet, like mead. “You should be inside, girl.”

“I could say the same for you. Why are you out here, anyway? I saw Jon slip away as well but I know he’s never enjoyed the company of others, at least this many I suppose. Do you like the company of others, Sandor?” 

_Seven hells,_ he thought. The way her mouth uttered his name was enough to bring any man to a halt. “Little bird likes to talk,” he hummed, liking the red swarming her cheeks. He wanted to say _I like your company, little bird,_ but what came out was something along the lines of “Don’t like the company of cunts and idiots, and back there's the lot of them.” 

She nodded. Her hands squeezed into fists at her sides, that little pink tongue poking out, “I found myself missing your presence. Which is why I came out here, to find you, which I have. Found you, that is.” 

“Were you…” Her voice cracked as she twisted her hands behind her back. “Earlier today, were you being honest with Margaery?” 

“What about?” 

“The Festival. You said to Margaery that you would not be partaking in the festivities and I was hoping it was not true.” 

Intrigued but dubious, Sandor supplied, “I see no point, little bird. A man like me would have no reason to fight. I’ve no women, therefore, no need to fight.” 

“There’s not a single woman in Winterfell whose hand you would fight for?” She gulped. “No one at all?” 

He’d have given anything to fall to his knee and hold her close, swearing to slay any man who looked at her with less than a lucrative smile. She deserved only the nicest things, and he was undeserving of perfection. 

“Ay, little bird.” He nodded, “Not one.” 

“And If I asked you to fight for mine?” 

_Little Bird-_

_Sansa-_

Seeing the wideness of his eyes, which could only have been disgust and shock, she muttered, “Excuse me, Ser,” scurrying down the dark corridor with mist in her eyes. Was there a reason as to why Sandor Clegane had not followed the beautiful Sansa Stark down the dark corridor and pushed her against one of the cold walls, claiming her lips and rummaging a hand through her skirt? 

It was an emotion that Sandor had not felt since childhood, Gregor looming with a sneer as the smell of rotten flesh entered his nostrils. 

_Fear_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa watches the first training match, and Jon Snow knows nothing (so what else is new).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not promising anything! But I'm trying to set up a schedule to update this fic and my Tywin one once a week! Maybe!

**_Sansa_ **

Surprisingly, sleep had found Sansa well in the dead of night, mindfully listening to the floating footsteps passing her door, looms of warm light from the buds of dragonflies, and the snores of Arya, which, mind you, was far down the hall.

 _Ladies do not snore,_ Lady Leanne always noted when Jeyne would nod off, _they breathe in through the nose, and out through the throat. Silence is key, girls, and silence makes for a happy husband._

No handmaiden had rose her from sleep, not even the ruckus from the courtyard- swords clashing as knights gallantly retold stories of the previous nights visit to the brothel, but instead the desire to see Sandor again had the edge of her night slip sliding against the floor as she rushed to her closet. 

Every color met her eyes; would yellow be too bright, and perhaps red to presumptuous? _Just like you were with him before,_ she scolded herself with a stern glare in the mirror. A lady of the court should never be alone with a man, and she’d done it nonetheless. And even worse, enjoyed it. 

His lips curved whenever he called her little bird, and in turn it curled her stomach in a delicious sense, one that Lady Leanne would frown upon, no doubt. Wanton is what she’d be called, as if being alone with a man sullied her virtue. Occasionally, more rarely than not, the absurdity of what it meant to be a lady bothered Sansa in a way that tickled her nose. 

The blue dress ended up being the best and most fit for a day like this, and it matched her eyes. 

Much to her surprise, the hall was empty. Usually at this bright hour, there were already handmaids or Maesters or Ladies of the Court mulling about. On the most dreadful occasion, Lord Baelish had found himself on the receiving end of her door, and his eyes had never strayed her own Tully blues. He was a family friend, everyone liked to say, but something about his eyes would turn anyone's stomach. Very mischievous, and she was grateful he rarely visited her rooms. Either to her face or retreating back, he’d murmur how she looked so much like her mother. 

Deciding to not break her nightly fast was taken swiftly by her Queen Mother, Catelyn Stark. Tully sapphire eyes watched her eldest daughter with a harsh gaze, mouth downturned in a frown. Her deep auburn locks were braided up into a faux crown, unlike the long cascading crimson waves down Sansa’s back; so alike yet so different. 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry? I don’t believe you’ve broken your fast.” 

“I’m not hungry this morning.” Lying was a sin, and her grumbling stomach attested to that. “A midday meal will do me better, I suppose.” 

“Nonsense, dear, we can’t have you withering away once winter truly sets in. Every lady must break her fast each and every morning, even if she is not hungry.” Her mother offered an arm, “Come, let us see if your brothers have risen as well.” 

Taking a quick glance at the main doors, and sighing in defeat, Sansa took her mothers arm. Striding past servants and handmaidens whomst bowed at the regal Stark women, they entered with the Main Hall.

Robb sat where Ned would, one hand swirling a dagger while the other poked and prodded a bowl of various fruits. Bran was off the side with Summer, his dead legs splayed out in front with childlike mirth in his eyes. Arya was nowhere to be found, and Sansa tried not to purse her lips. She was probably already on the training field with Sandor, wooden sword in hand and trying to knock him down as best she could. It wasn’t fair that Arya didn’t have to join them, and Sansa felt a cloud of annoyance boil over her head. 

Jon, their bastard brother, was nowhere to be found as well. 

“Brandon, dear, what have I said about sitting on the floor? It’s filthy, and disgusting, and not the place for a prince.” 

Bran smiled up at his mother, petting Summer’s soft fur. “You said Summer couldn’t sit with us at the table, so I’ll sit with him down here. I don’t want him to feel alone.” 

“He can see you when you sit in a chair, and he’s never lonely.” 

“How would you know?” Bran asked. Hodor, a largely obtrusive man with a kind heart who lifted the youngest heir to Winterfell when need be, perked up from his spot by the door. “You don’t even let Nymeria or Lady inside. They cry outside my room at night because they’re cold.”

Their mother sighed, “They’re direwolves, sweetheart. They have pelts for warmth, just like us. In the North, when the air is too cold for us, we wear the skin of wolves to stay alive.” Seeing that her youngest still did not agree, she conceded with a wave of her free arm, “Just try to stay clean. For me.” 

Nodding, Bran turned back to Summer, and Hodor fell back to sleep.

Sansa took place next to Robb, filling her plate with brightly colored fruits and one thick chunk of honeyed bread, moaning at the sweetness blossoming on her tongue. Sugar and sweets weren’t meant to be eaten too much by a lady of six and ten, but Sansa had defied those rules for long now. Jeyne was excellent at buttering up Hot Pie, batting her lashes and whispering sweet things to the young boy. He practically melted on the spot, giving away lemon cake after lemon cake. 

Her father had found them smelling saccharine sweet and covered in pale sugar, begging not to tell anyone of what they’d done. 

“How goes your womanly classes, dear sister? Are they as enlightening as Talisa says?” 

Sansa chuckled, “I suppose one would say the spectacle by Arya is enlightening as anything. But I suppose Talisa has more than enough to share with you.” Robb smirked at his sister, fingering the dagger in his hand, spinning a hole into the table. 

He picked at a piece of ripe delicious green apple, “She mentioned Father removing you early. Does it have anything to do with Arya’s new training lessons with the Hound? I can’t imagine you’d want to be a spectacle for such a thing. Most women faint at the sight of blood.” 

If only he knew how much she wanted to see Sandor swing his sword and sweat in the daylight, only for her eyes. “Father asked that I watch over Arya until his return, and I’ve graciously accepted the opportunity.” 

“Why?” 

“If there is anyone in Westeros who can best Arya, it would be Sandor Clegane. It might be interesting to see how she fares against a worthy opponent.” Seeing a look of trepidation on Robb’s face, she asked, “Have I said something wrong?” 

“Why do you not call him the Hound?” Robb shrugged. “I’ve noticed he prefers it on occasion to the title of Ser.” 

“I’m merely calling him his name, I didn’t think it was a crime.” Robb realized he’d spoken wrongly to his sweet sister and quickly tried to rectify his situation, “And it’s not, Sansa. But do not burden yourself with the names and titles of men so far beneath your status. You are to be Queen someday, not some broodmare for a dog.” 

“Most would tell your lover that she is to be a whore, not a Queen as well.” 

Nearly choking on his bite of apple, while also making sure their mother hadn’t heard such a claim, he deeply glared at Sansa. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything. Do not turn away from me now.” 

Lowering her voice, she whispered “I have not told a soul of what you two have been doing, but I implore you, Robb, do not plan to keep it a secret forever.” Reaching over, she squeezed his hand with sisterly care. “She loves you, worships you, and you treat her like a bedside whore by hiding her.” 

“I have not-” 

“You are.” Turning back to her fruit, she chewed on a bite of overripe peach. “You’ve yet to tell our family, or announce any betrothal.”

An idea sparked in her head, “Perhaps for the Maiden’s Day festival, you could announce your claim on her. No one would question or doubt your devotion to her… and it would be quite romantic.” She tried not to picture Sandor and her in the same situation. 

As if struck by lightning, Robb lurched up from his chair and kissed Sansa on the cheek, “You’re brilliant, Sansa! Brilliant!” And he was off, abandoning the half eaten fruit while their Mother shook her head. Smiling to herself, Sansa finished off her honeyed bread and a few pieces of juicy fruit, excusing herself with a curtsy to the room. Only when the door had shut behind her did she sprint outside and into the morning air, only to knock directly into Jon. 

“Jon!” She cried, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you coming. Are you alright?” 

Sprawled on his back, he stared up at his sister. Trying to shake away the thoughts of how beautiful she looked, he began to stand. “It’s alright, I should’ve been more careful, My Lady.” 

“Please, just Sansa will do.” Taking in his coverings better fit for training with a sword, she asked, “Where are you off to? We had already begun to break our fast.” 

“I was not hungry this morning.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “And I wanted to make sure Arya knew what she was getting into.” 

“Oh?” 

“She seemed confident in herself, which is good, but against a man like Clegane… confidence isn’t much to go by.” 

Once they stood toe to toe, and it was clear that Jon was waiting for her to make the first move, Sansa began to stroll aside Jon. “You don’t think he’ll actually hurt her, right? I don’t believe our Father would’ve entrusted someone with Arya if she were truly in danger.” 

“Your Father,” He corrected. “And Lord Stark’s judgment is blinded by love. He longs to make Arya happy, and if the price is Clegane’s input, then he would happily pay it.” 

“I suppose the price for happiness is a costly one, brother.” 

He didn’t correct her on the untrue title of brother, “I would say so, Sansa.” Continuing their walk past the stable boys and squires, they looked to the bright rising sun as it awoke Winterfell. People began to fill the empty space, and Jon kept one hand on his sword, eyeing the shifty eyed peasants that watched his sweet sister. 

“Do you ever plan to marry, Jon?” Sansa inquired while sidestepping a mud puddle. “I think you would make some maiden a very happy wife.” 

“I haven’t really thought of that, if I’m being honest. Lady Stark tells me I shouldn’t think of such things, but I fear Lord Stark intends to send me away.” Looking to the Northern Sky, Jon frowned, “The Wall turns good men… cruel. And no one would marry a bastard, anyway.” 

Her bones chilled at the thought of The Wall, stopping in her tracks; “Has father voiced this to you? I will not allow you to be sent to your death on that godforsaken wall.” 

“It is not in your hands.” 

Seeing that the courtyard was close, and no one of importance was in sight, Sansa pulled her bastard brother close. “If you think I’ll allow them to send you away, you really must know nothing, Jon Snow.” 

Then she was out of his arms and striding away, knowing his eyes were boring into her back. Rarely did her bastard brother boil her blood like this. He was foolish, truly, to think he’d be sent away. He belonged here; he was a Stark just as much as she was. 

Clashing swords echoed through the air, and fairly quickly, she spotted them. Various pairs had already begun training. They ranged from young versus old, strong versus weak, quick and fast versus slow and lazy. Only a few pairs worked with real steel swords, and most, rightfully so, used wooden. No use losing an ear in a practice fight. 

Finally, she stood before them, and frowned. Sandor looked the same; his armor that helped in his intimidating stance, hair hung to his shoulders, and burns on display in the sun. But Arya-

“Are those breeches?” 

Her little sister smirked, nodding. “Father had them made for me, better for my footwork. A dress would just get in my way. I need all the room I can to kill this dog.” 

Finally, Sandor goaded, “I guess you’ll be killing me with a wooden sword, girlie. I’d like to see you try.” 

Turning away from the worst Stark sibling, he bowed to his favorite, muttering “Little Bird” for just her ears. To which she blushed, cheeks matching her locks, curtsying to Sandor.

“Can we start already?” Arya was impatient, and Sansa nodded. She walked to the small set of wooden stands a few feet away, sitting down and observing. Unfortunately, unless they yelled, which she was certain they would be doing, their words were out of her reach. Her round nails tapped against the material of blue dress, fingering the silk fabric as they began to fight. Arya was fast, slipping around the end of Sandor’s wooden sword, but it didn’t seem to deter Sandor a bit, as he knocked her out from underneath her feet. 

For such a large man, Sandor was exceptionally fast. She could see the precision in his moves, the eagerness to continue to knock Arya down again and again, and she began to pity her sister. Hitting the dirt that many times must’ve been painful. She could already imagine the bruises her sister would have. 

Around the time the sun reached its peak, Arya called for a break. Her nose had nearly cracked after one failed duck from Sandor’s sword, but surprisingly, he donned a few scratches himself. Truthfully, her sister was better than when they’d begun, but had a ways to go. The two of them had gone to procure some sort of snack, and Sansa had chosen to remain on the wooden bench, enjoying the sunlight, 

Which may have been the wrong thing to do. 

“Sweetling,” Petyr Baelish stood at the base of the steps, hands clasped behind his back with a smile on his face. “You look stunning as ever, Sansa. So much like your Mother.” 

“Lord Baelish, what brings you here today?” She hoped he couldn’t hear the tremble in her voice, not notice the nervous twitch of her hands as she stepped up to sit next to her. 

“Please, call me Petyr. Only my business friends call me Lord Baelish, and I like to think we’re closer than that, Sansa.” Shyly, his hand landed on her blue clothed thigh. “May I ask as to why you’re out here, alone? Not one of your brothers or Cat in sight, which I find odd. You are the jewel of the Starks, and jewels are protected.” 

“I…I’m here watching Arya train, that’s all. I’m not even sure my Mother knows I’m out here.” She confessed, hoping he wouldn’t run and tell on her. “You won’t tell her, will you, Lord- Petyr?” 

Smirking, Petyr assured her, “I would never, sweet girl. You have my word.” Boldly grasping her hand, he kissed her knuckles while looking into her Tully blue eyes. _Stunning,_ he thought, longing to kiss her small red lips. 

“Arya should be back soon,” Sansa supplied, noticing him looking around for the youngest Stark. “She did not break her fast with the rest of us. You don’t need to waste your time here.” 

“I think the ladies of my establishment can handle themselves for the time being.” Being bold, Petyr asked, “Have you ever been with a man, Sansa?” Still rubbing her thigh, he dared to inch it up. 

Her eyes went wide. She felt frozen as he rubbed her warm skin, “No-No I haven’t Lord  
Baelish, I don’t think-” 

“Petyr,” He whispered while leaning in. “My lady friends call me Petyr as well.” Leaning in, he took a heavy lungful of her sweet smell, wishing he owned the girl under his hand. His hands dared to slip under her dress, and finally, she clamped down on the offending appendage. 

“I’m a maiden, Lord Baelish. This is highly inappropriate for a woman of my status.” Squeezing his hand, “If you would please remove yourself-” 

“Littlefinger!” 

The duo turned to see Sandor Clegane furiously marching their way. Petyr surged up and righted his coat, refusing to be intimidated by a beast of a man. Sansa remained seated, praising the Seven for having Sandor arrive before Lord Baelish could get any further. For a small man, he was quite frightening, and she tried to calm her racing heart. As a man from the Fingers who’d been tormented for his size as a child, there was a lurking confidence in his every step. Knowledge was power, Sansa knew, and Petyr was a smart man. 

Once Sandor was close enough to see the righteous scowl on his face, she eyed the angry scars on his cheek. They bulged and veined with his every step, eyes drawn hard to the man so confidently standing near her. Shockingly, there was not an ounce of fear in her bones- it was staring at a serpent with bared fangs yet continuing to dance around its tail- and her heart thumped loudly in her chest.

Stepping down to meet the raging mutt, Petyr smiled, “Clegane, a pleasure, as always. What brings a Kingsguard to the training fields?” 

“The fuck you doing here, Littlefinger?” growled Sandor. “I’ve been instructed by the King to train his youngest Stark.” 

“Ah, Ned Stark has seen it fit to place you in a position better suited for a man of your tastes. How gracious of him.” 

“Why don’t you fuck off to your whores and coin?” 

“Is that any way to speak with a maiden present?” Petyr turned to Sansa with a saccharine smirk. “You’ll have to excuse his language, Sansa, I don’t believe that House Clegane ever invested in the ways to treat their women. I, on the other hand, know more than enough.” 

Ignoring his vulgar implications, she stood and began to make her way between the two men. It would ruin the day if blood were to be split for her honor. “Lord Baelish, I believe your presence is no longer needed at the moment. Sandor is more than enough protection I need.” 

“Then tell me why I came upon you alone, Sansa?” inquired Petyr. “Any man or Wildling could’ve snatched up a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” 

“I’d like to see one try,” challenged Sandor. His eyes hadn’t dared stray from Littlefinger, and he inched closer to the hilt of his sword. “I’ll slit any man's throat who tries to touch the Stark girl, yourself included.” 

“Is that a threat, Hound?” goaded Petyr, licking his lips. “I’m a very important man to your King, and I do not take kindly to rabid dogs with idle words. I could see you losing _your_ head.” 

Finally, not being able to stomach their violent words and threaded insults, Sansa declared “Enough.” Turning to Lord Baelish, she glared, “Leave us. Now.”

Her hands clenched in the fabric of her dress, not breaking away from Lord Baelish’s hateful sage green eyes. There was no pride to be had in seeing him break away first with a glance over her shoulder, where assumedly Sandor was wearing a nasty glare, but she did let her shoulders relax when he stalked away. _Such a vile man,_ she thought. 

Turning around and seeing Sandor stock still, his hand finally slipping from white knuckling his sword, she thanked him, “Thank you for coming, Sandor. I don’t… I do not enjoy his presence as much as family does.” She sighed while stepping closer to him. “In his mind, he compares me to my Mother, and I’ve heard stories that he’d longed for her when they were young.”

“As long as I breathe, he won’t touch you, Little Bird. I swear to it.” 

She eyed the large man towering over here. His lips were in a straight line, but the hard crease on his brow had fled with Lord Baelish. Whispers always flew through Winterfell that Gregor Clegane had been the one to give him his scars, had melted the flesh away with glee. It churned her stomach to think of his older brother; Sandor was nothing like him.

Stepping closer to his hulking form, the chainmail of his armor chilled her bare skin, but she didn’t back away. It felt nice to be this close to him, under his form and protected against anyone and anything. Warmth spread through her chest, and feeling a courageous leap in her throat, she reached up faster than he could react and pecked his scarred cheek. The flesh under her lips felt rough and mangled, yet warm to the touch. Many would assume it’d taste of burnt flesh or bone, but only salt remained on her lips. 

Spying Arya running back with a mutton chop in her hand, Sansa quickly backed away from Sandor, blushing at his wide eyes and gaping mouth. Had he ever been kissed before? Not as whores do with men like Petyr Baelish, but with intentions as pure as hers? 

Had Sandor ever been _loved_? 

“I’m ready!” belted Arya, tearing into her mutton like a ferocious direwolf. Septa Mordane would’ve pinched her ear for that. “I’ve got it this time. I’ll knock you on your ass.” The youngest Stark noted the look on Clegane’s face, “The hell’s the matter with you? D’you hit your head or something? What’d you do to him, Sansa?” 

Smiling while carefully stepping back to her previous seat on the wooden bench, she replied, “Nothing at all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Sandor ('s Day Off)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's Day Off with an unexpected round of guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorty! I try to keep these GoT fic chapters towards 3-5k, but I felt this one was fine this length. 
> 
> Also, I'm a very hard slut for ABO, I've written a good amount and there honestly isn't enough for GoT. I'd recommend Hard Times at Clegane Ranch, which just finished and slapped so hard, but I may dip my toe in the abo pool soon!

**_Sandor (s day off)_ **

Every night following the afternoon’s spent deflecting the wooden sword of the youngest Stark, who tended to bare her mutt like teeth each and every time she hit the ground- which was more than one should- had been haunted, cursed, _tainted._

There was hardly a moment that he didn’t think of the girl whose gaze felt like flames burning all over again. It barely took any thought to dodge the oncoming hits, and occasional punches, but even he’d come out with a few scrapes and bruises.

Each drop of blood spilt came to happen just as her pink tongue would make an appearance to lightly lick its lower counterpart, the plump flesh now glistening in the dark sun's heat. Pearly white teeth would bite down on that lip, and the Stark bitch would take her chance and have him on his ass. 

_Kissed by fire,_ Sandor remembered what the Wildlings whispered about those of red hair, _those Northern fucks understood one thing, at least._

On the previous night, the whore he’d fucked had a name not worth remembering with tits too small for his fists. Her ass had bounced against his hips with each thrust, but his eyes hadn’t strayed from her red hair pooling into the small of her back. It was darker than he would’ve liked, not as soft, but it would do.

Her voice hadn’t been right either, too high and false. It had only spurred him on to press her face to the silk sheets and fuck her twice as hard, wishing a different woman was speared on his cock. 

Guaranteed, fucking Sansa would not be like fucking a whore. His little bird was delicate and soft; her kind words didn’t deserve to be muffled when he fucked her bloody. No, she’d be on her back with tits for only his eyes, every thrust jolting those perky pink nipples closer to his hungry mouth. And the sweet untouched cunt between her legs would be a meal fit for a king. 

His face burned when he remembered how her lips had felt against his scarred flesh. Silk against rough stone, heat against chilled frost, confirmation of her desire for him as he did for her. It had taken everything in him not to take her in the courtyard, shucking off the flimsy blue cloth and breaking her maidenhead, fucking the warm, wet heat in her smallclothes, no doubt covered in red wispy curls.

_Virgin petals,_ her pictured, _ripe and sweet for the taking._

She was a damned sin in the flesh, sent here to curse him. 

“Clegane,” a voice shouted, having Sandor realize he was knee deep in chilled river water, trying to catch fish. It had become a peace bringer in his free time; “The fuck you doing here?” 

Recognizing the horribly annoying voice, he turned to see the Brotherhood without Banners. 

Thoros of Myr, a proud subordinate of the Lord of Light with a balding head that held a top knot, Beric Dondarrion, an unkillable fucker who should’ve died six times ago, whilst Lim, Morgan and Rigell just followed Thoros and despised Lannister rule, which meant they had more sense than half of Westeros.

They’d crossed paths only twice before; once in Riverrun, where Thoros had taken a liking to one of Walder Frey’s daughters, but hadn’t had a desire to marry the poor girl. Sandor had caught them mid-fuck, same with Riverrun guards, and he’d spared their lives while the girl had babbled for mercy. Poor thing had cried her lungs out with blood staining her thighs, while Sandor had slashed Riverrun throats under the distasteful eye of Thoros. 

Absurd rules about killing were why Sandor didn’t stick around with them. Brutal killings were against the ways of their lord, rules about fair deaths by hanging, which meant no beheadings or dismemberment. _Bunch of nancies._

The second had been in Molestown, cold as shit place with nothing but Wildlings and cunts, but Sandor had nodded to Beric, and Beric to him. They hadn’t seen reason to speak to one another. Winterfell guards had been called to dispose of the Free Folk overrun, and who knew why Beric had arrived. 

“Fishing, what’s it look like?” belted Sandor at the Brotherhood without Banners. 

Thoros stepped forward, grinning with black teeth and crinkled eyes. “Looks like you haven’t caught a damn thing yet. My men spied you an hour ago and thought you were dead, just standing there.” 

Walking to the water line but not an inch in, he rolled on the heels of his feet. “How’ve you been, Clegane? Well, I imagine. Winterfell doesn’t exactly fall on hard times, does it?” 

Knowing that they weren’t going to simply piss off like he wanted, Sandor trudged through the moving water. Stepping onto dry land next to Thoros, he shook off his feet and eyed the boots he’d lain a few feet away. Managing to get them on, Sandor sneered at Thoros, “Doesn’t your Lord have something better for you to do than piss me off?” 

“Not at the moment,” Thoros snickered. “Why don’t you allow us to accompany you for a drink, Clegane? I’d love to catch up with you.” 

“Fuck off,” growled Sandor. He’d made it two steps before an arrow from one of the archers was pointed at his head. 

“Put that arrow down you bloody girl.” He didn’t lower the arrow. “Tougher girls than you have tried to kill me.” 

“We’ve not come for violence,” Beric Dondarrion drawled. He’d kept to the back of the group since they’d arrived, and now his one eye was on Sandor. “The Lord of Light has not sent us here to your blood, Clegane. Truly, we mean you no harm.” 

“You couldn’t kill me if you tried.” 

The last thing Sandor wanted to do was spend his day with the Brotherhood. It wasn’t that they were evil, or unjust, but that they annoyed every fiber in his being. Besides, he’d come out here to clear his mind of Starks and Sansa’s cunt.

Yes, he’d been disappointed to hear that the Queen had taken them both from his care for just this day, but that didn’t mean he’d sit around like some green boy and wait for them to call on him. There were other ways of entertaining yourself that didn’t include training a bitch or wanting to rut the other.

Spotting a mop of dark curls fleeing through the tree line- there were ears everywhere it seemed-Sandor grumbled to himself. 

Maybe drinking a pint with a band of fire worshippers would do him some good. 

But as it turned out, three pints in, he was wrong. 

Sitting across from Beric and Thoros, Sandor downed the last of his ale, slamming the cup back on the table with a smirk. “Another.” 

“I think you’ve had more than enough,” Thoros advised. “If I wanted to kill you, it’d be with all your sense intact.” 

“Why are you really here, Thoros? Some… fucking cunt your chasing, or another Witch get in that bald head of yours?” 

The Red Witch, Melisandre, had swept through Winterfell not a year past, boasting lies about her Lord of Light, and that she’d already entrusted Stannis Baratheon with her wisdom. The raven containing the words _The Stag has burned_ had been a good day in Sandor’s book. The price for following religious nonsense was death. 

“I brought us here,” Beric interrupted Thoros from starting something between the three men. “I’d seen you in the flames, Clegane. Dancing with a woman with hair like fire. It intrigued me to think that our Lord has seen your future worth showing. Do you know of the woman with flaming hair?” 

_Seven fucking hells,_ Sandor wished to bash his head in the table, _just my luck._

Leaning forward then lowering his voice, Sandor promised, “If I see you even look at her, I’ll make sure that Lord of yours doesn’t have enough pieces to bring you back again.” 

“Oh, so you do know her?” Beric hummed a jaunty tune. Elbowing Thoros, he turned to murmur, “I told you he’d know. He’s smarter than he looks.” 

Having done enough with the lot of cunts, Sandor began to rise, beginning his farewells, when Beric cut him off, “We’re not finished here, Clegane. I will speak my peace before we leave you be. That is all we ask.”

It wasn’t as though he had better to do, so Sandor planted himself again. “It better be fucking important.” 

“Seeing as it is not within my power to determine the importance of what I’ve seen, only you can answer that question.” Beric cleared his throat at the deathly cold glare Sandor sent him, doing his best to not succumb to intimidation. 

“I’ve seen the woman with hair like fire dance with you and only you, and to this I show gratitude. It is not always easy to do what must be done.” 

“What the fuck are you going on about?” spat Sandor. “I’m chasing the bloody girl cause she lights fire in my veins, not because your Lord told me to. I don’t fucking care what you see with the only eye you’ve got left. I wonder why no ones tried to take out the other one.” 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly mean?” Thoros hummed around the rim of his cup. 

“Yes, but that’s usually before I kill ‘em.” 

“As I was saying,” interrupted Beric, “The flames have begun to grow stronger and brighter. They’ve begun to change in ways I do not understand. The Lord of Light shows what is and what can be, and I fear you and your woman, Clegane. There is another man in the flames, one with strength rivaling a battalion, and evil I’ve rarely ever seen.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “A man the size of a mountain.” 

_No,_ Sandor begged the Seven. Memories of fire and the burning smell of flesh flashed behind his eyes, willing them away with another chug of ale. There was no time to childishly think of the horrors done by his brother, nor the scars he still bore for all to see. Gregor was a monster through and through, and that the Lannister’s had enlisted him only showed how cruel the Capital was.

To instill trust in a monster, a man who took pride in raping and killing his own sister, was beyond Sandor could stomach. And now, to even think that there could be a challenge to his claim on his little bird, least of all by his brother, nearly emptied its contents.

But he needed to be sure. 

“How the fuck do I know I can trust any words that come pouring out your cunt mouth?” 

“You don’t,” Beric answered with honesty, raising one dark brow, “But our Lord does not lie.” 

Trust was not something that came easy to Sandor Clegane. But unease bubbled in his belly, boiling past his lungs and into his throat. Sansa was pure, and bright. For her to even have the chance of being snuffed out by his brother nearly had him in a rage. 

“What makes you think I could kill Gregor, even if I chance?” 

“Divine justice,” Beric explained, like it made any fucking sense. 

Across from him, Thoros sighed while glugging more ale, and eyeing the wench who’d refilled his glass. “I’ve seen men do wild things in the name of love, Clegane. And I daresay, you’re deeper in pig shit than the rest. You’ve got that look in your eyes that men have before they die, like they’d give anything to live another day. I see it in knights, squire’s… whores, the lot of them. And you’re not a coward, Clegane.” Nudging Beric, “This one may call it _divine justice,_ but I’ll call it as I see it. You love the girl, now you just have to keep her.” 

“A toast,” belted Thoros, rising above his brothers, “to the _Hound!_ ” 

The Brotherhood without Banners howled in glory as Sandor groaned with annoyance. 

_Fucking fire worshippers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out my Tywin/Sansa fic, In the Lion's Claws!
> 
> Try and update once a week!

**Author's Note:**

> Unsure of the chapter count this is my rough guess tbh. Comment if you enjoyed!


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